


craving is just another word for need

by Rubick



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Beast Quentin Coldwater, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Doppelganger, Dubious Consent, General all over squick warning, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Quentin Coldwater, This was supposed to be about snacks, Timeline 23, i don't know what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28317750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick
Summary: He circles around him, taking him in from every angle. “I never got to do what I wanted to. With your body.” He stops, looking back up at his face. “Do you have a name?”The Monster looks at Quentin curiously. “Not that I remember,” he says. “Do you have a game to play?”Quentin smiles at him. “I think I do.”Two entities that were never meant to meet... do.
Relationships: Beast Quentin Coldwater/The Monster, Beast Quentin/The Monster
Comments: 18
Kudos: 38
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	craving is just another word for need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAudity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/gifts).



> I set out to write a fun crack fic about Beast!Q and The Monster talking about their favorite snacks. And they _do_ but other shit happens along the way.
> 
> This fic made me feel weird while writing it, due to the content and state of mind of the participants. For my friend Aud, who has supported me through every crazy idea I’ve had, and is ridiculously amazing to boot. I hope you like this!
> 
> If you do not like this fic, you can send your complaints straight to [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) and [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry) and should probably also CC [jessalae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae).
> 
> Thank you for the awesome mood board, hoko.

“No, there are no... Starbucks in Fillory.” Quentin rolls his eyes, sitting down on his throne. He kicks at a stray rock, sending it skittering across the floor. They’re scattered all over; the throne room had taken quite the beating when Quentin swept in and killed anyone that stood in his way. 

“If there were, I would have destroyed them,” he adds, crossing his legs. He surveys Eliot—or the thing inhabiting Eliot’s body, anyway. There is no way any Eliot in any timeline would ever let his hair get that greasy or wear… that.

“Now who the fuck are you and why the fuck are you here?” He eyes him, the Eliot-that-isn’t, up and down, frowning. “In this body? You’re not… him,” he says, his lips thinning. He has memories of the Eliot he knew, memories that once were important… back when he was weak. He doesn’t need that shit anymore. He doesn’t need anyone or anything.

Still, he can’t stop himself from saying, “He died trying to bring his Quentin back, you know.” _Trying to tear me back down to his level._ He shakes his head, his lips curling up into a small smile. Turning back to this Monster in Eliot’s body, he continues, “And you smell… you’re not human. Or from here. Do not lie.” He crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side. “I’ll know.”

“How will you know?” the Monster asks, stepping closer. His eyes shift across the room, taking in the rubble and trash strewn across the floor before finally stopping on Quentin, a curious expression on his face.

Quentin’s nose wrinkles as he continues to study him, long limp hair, and a graphic t-shirt with a picture of a hedgehog and the caption ‘Hedgehogs. Why don’t they just share the hedge?’ “The same way I know you’re more than just a little lamb that got lost on it’s way to the slaughterhouse.” He sits back again, tapping a finger against the arm of his chair. Something new is lighting up inside him, an urgent flame he hasn’t felt since he came back. It’s hot and sharp, unfurling in his belly like a tightly coiled snake coming awake, it’s forked tongue flickering out, eyes flashing as it sets eyes on its prey. 

But there is power here. More than he has at his disposal, and he needs to play this right. Keeping his face neutral, he remarks, casually, “You know, I’ve killed Gods.”

“As have I,” the Monster says, walking closer. “I’ve eaten their hearts. The last one tasted like peaches dipped in chocolate. I didn’t like it,” he admits, looking off to the side. “This body rejected it.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows and smirks. “That body accepts only the finest of internal organs, I’m sure.” He puts feet up on an ottoman made of what was left from one of the other thrones. “You still haven told me _why_ you’re in that body. Or out of your own time.” He lets his eyes roam over the body that he had vague memories of fantasizing about. He’d spent hours wondering how those muscles would flex under his fingertips, wishing he could dig himself out from under the weight of his insecurities to make a move. 

Well. He was free from those insecurities now; they were as dead as everyone who’d ever loved that pathetic version of himself. When he’d heard how his Eliot had died, had seen his body covered in blood, he hadn’t been _sad_ he’d never get the chance to follow through on those fantasies… but he had felt a twinge of something in the empty space where his shade used to reside. He’d even entertained a few thoughts of ridding Eliot of his shade… it would be nice to have a playmate, he thought. If there was anyone he’d want with him to watch the world burn, it would be Eliot.

No matter. He was starting to get bored, alone here in Fillory. His last good fight was over a week ago, those arrogant Centaurs in the north who thought their healing magic could patch up the hole his shade had left in him. He was getting restless.

The Monster is still looking at him with Eliot’s eyes, although they aren’t nearly as lively as Quentin remembers. “The original owner wouldn’t be happy with what you’ve done to it,” Quentin remarks, his gaze still moving over Eliot’s body.

The Monster shrugs. “The ‘original owner’ of yours could say the same.” His voice is so much flatter than Quentin remembers, too.

Quentin shrugs. “ _I_ am the original owner, and this body has only gotten better.”

“You are not,” the Monster says, stepping forward. “If I split you open and looked inside, there would only be worms and moths and… fermented milk. You are not sweet. Not like my Quentin.” He shrugs. “Even if he is sour most days.”

“You couldn’t open me up if you tried,” Quentin says, one finger tapping on the arm of the chair. Then he stands, taking a step towards him. “You, on the other hand…” He circles around him, taking him in from every angle. “I never got to do what I wanted to. With your body.” He stops, looking back up at his face. “Do you have a name?”

He looks at Quentin curiously. “Not that I remember,” he says. “Do you have a game to play?”

Quentin smiles at him. “I think I do.”

It’s quick and rough and though the Monster doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening at first, he knows what it means to feel good, and Quentin innately just _knows_ how to make that body feel good. The Monster quickly begins enjoying this new game, and Quentin ensures he enjoys it more than once before they’re done. 

It’s odd, the new kind of power that flushes through his body, sears through his veins as he hears sharp gasps and soft cries from the Monster, the voice finally sounding familiar, like he’d always thought it would. The rush makes him dizzy, sends all the blood straight to his cock, and he thought he’d never feel as high as when he’d sliced Martin Chatwin’s head off, or when he’d ripped Ember’s spine out through his neck. He was wrong, he thinks, as he moves against the body he’s spent so much time thinking about, tasting and grasping it, scraping his teeth and nails against it, so hard he draws blood.

When he’d woken up back on Earth with a new body and none of the pesky morality or bonds to humanity that had weighed him down so heavily when he was human, he set out to thoroughly obliterate everything that had ever disappointed him as Quentin Coldwater. It’s so fun, so fucking _freeing_ to do whatever the fuck you want and have nothing but blissful oblivion in your mind. He’d spent all of his life in a prison of his own making, always so _worried_ , stumbling along with the weight of it all pushing him further down with every step. Now, he’s light-footed and agile, able to jump as high as he wants, his mind weightless and free form all the clutter he never fucking needed to drag along with him in the first place.

The one thing he’d missed out on, he has now. Maybe he can have that playmate he thought he’d lost out on when his Eliot had died. Everything he’d heard about Eliot Waugh is certainly true—his dick is ridiculous, even if the Monster has no idea what to do with it.

That’s fine. Quentin has all the time in the world to show him how to play.

When he’s done, for now, when they’re both laying in the first bedroom Quentin could find, naked and sweaty and spent, covered in their own come, Quentin laughs as the Monster says, “I like that game.”

“I thought you might,” Quentin says. “We can do it again.” He turns and looks at the Monster, who is looking down quizzically at his chest, touching the mess on his belly and staring at it as he wipes it between his fingertips. “Tell me,” Quentin says, his head propped up on one hand. “Eliot. Is he dead? Or is he in there somewhere?” Quentin reaches over and taps the Monster’s head, the gesture turning into brushing a lock of hair back behind his ear.

The Monster looks at him suspiciously. “Why does everyone care about him so much?”

Quentin smiles. “I am incapable of caring,” he says. “But if you’re going to be sticking around, I like to know what could come popping out of you on any given day.”

The Monster frowns. “I do not think I can leave here,” he says. “This is disturbing, if there is no Starbucks.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “There are other foods you’ll enjoy,” he says, not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth. “There are some I do miss from Earth. Tacos. Anything from Taco Bell, really. Donuts. Those fucking meth muffins Josh made. Ice cream with sprinkles.”

“There is no ice cream here, either?” The Monster says, almost pathetically. “This body craves something sweet right now. And a cigarette, I think.”

Quentin chuckles. “Fillory has other things going for it. Lots of meat. Good chicken wings. A whole ass lamb roast, if you want it. Beaver nuts, if you’re not squeamish—which I doubt you are—because they’re actual beaver nuts. And bees.”

“Oh,” the Monster says, brightening. “I do like the Rainbow Bee Holes cereal. We have the jumbo size.”

“No,” Quentin says, actually, really laughing for the first time in who-the-fuck-knows. “We do not have Bee Holes here. Rainbow or otherwise. Like, there are these bees in the South Grove that you can eat and they taste like what I imagined virgin blood tastes like—”

“Like rust and strawberries?” the Monster asks.

Quentin gives him a slight side-eye, and then says, “Sure. But if you crush and snort them, they’re basically cocaine. Amazing.”

The Monster looks at him, and then again back down at their bodies. “I would like to try it,” he says. “After we play that game again.”

Quentin nods. “Okay,” he says absently. 

He can work with this.

~~~


End file.
